


WWN Listens

by dudugodudugo



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-04
Updated: 2018-07-04
Packaged: 2019-06-05 02:48:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15160811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dudugodudugo/pseuds/dudugodudugo
Summary: Five years after the war, Lucius looks forward to the days when he can listen to a certain radio show on the WWN. The radio personality is hilarious, providing entertainment and solid criticism at the same time, and Lucius can't get enough of his bad jokes and strangely familiar voice.





	1. "Blonde Eyebrow"

**Author's Note:**

  * For [williamsnickers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/williamsnickers/gifts).



> This fan-fiction was written for my steadfast editor, lovelyluce. May this year bring your own successes and happiness.
> 
> Original prompt:
> 
> Five years after the war, Lucius looks forward to the days when he can listen to a certain radio show on the WWN. The radio personality is hilarious, providing entertainment and solid criticism at the same time, and Lucius can't get enough of his bad jokes and strangely familiar voice. One day, strolling down Diagon Alley, he happens upon Harry Potter, who is sitting alone in one of the trendy magical coffee shops. Despite his popularity, Potter is content to ignore everyone around him in favour of leafing through a pile of parchment, and this intrigues Lucius. He decides to approach the young man to say hello, but as he steps closer, his eyes fall upon a familiar opening line on the parchment – a line that tells him Harry Potter is his beloved radio host. What is a man supposed to do?
> 
> **In WWN Listens, Cho Chang’s name will be changed to Chun-Ja Jang. I made this change in a bid to support Koreans. Thank you.

**WWN Listens  
** **I: “Blonde Eyebrow”  
** **969 words**

 

“ - and for this week only, purchase a seat on the Wizengamot!  One slot and one slot only, ladies and gentlemen,” the radio host trumpeted.  In the quiet shop the wireless sat, waiting for someone to notice it.

“Lucius,” Herbert Burke greeted, “w-what a surprise.”  And indeed, it must have been a surprise, one blonde eyebrow acknowledged.  “A pleasant one, of course,” Herbert quickly added, tumbling out of his back room.  Its door stood ajar, revealing swamps of paperwork and worn boxes until small hands forgetfully pulled it shut.

“Good morning, Herbert.  Or indeed, good afternoon.”  Bright outside though it was, hardly anyone frequented the shops of Knockturn Alley at this time of day.  Lucius had found himself wandering its deserted streets, having just come from the Ministry and feeling rather put out.  In the few short hours between this morning’s Floo-call and now, news of a Wizengamot member’s marked disappearance had spread like disease.  Lucius glanced at the radio sitting by the cash register as it remarked on breaking events.

“- previous occupant was fired over the following heinous crimes...  Unwillingness to kiss the Minister’s arse, and using intelligence during office hours.  If neither of these vices apply to you, then the Minister of Magic is eager to receive your CV.  Offices are located inside the building of shameless corruption - inquire within!”

The radio inside Borgin and Burkes was far from top quality, scratching the host’s otherwise velvety voice.  Lucius eyed the radio as Herbert, his colleague and distant cousin-in-law, sifted through a ring of keys.

“Like me to turn that off?” the plump man asked, gesturing at the magical radio.

Lucius shook his head.  “An interesting choice of programme,” he replied in dry observation.

Across the counter, Herbert merely grunted.  He had finally found the key he was looking for, and carefully unlocked the display case between them.  Graceless fingers took out an aged stethoscope, which rested inside a simple wooden display box.

“What you requested, Lucius,” Herbert intoned, setting it down on the glass countertop.  He was clearly wary of touching the item itself, Lucius noted.

It radiated Dark magic, and in reply, Lucius leaned forward.  His eyes glittered. “May I?” he asked, slipping his wand from his cane.  A mute nod was the only encouragement he needed. “Yes…” he murmured, examining the curse.  “A nasty pet you are, darling.”

“Transport was no easy task, mind you,” Herbert muttered darkly as Lucius levitated the stethoscope.  His bright eyes examined it with keen consideration.

“Is that so,” murmured Lucius.  “Rare, to see a Muggle artefact so wholly emblazoned with Dark magic.  To think, the slightest mishap could…”

“Yes,” echoed his cousin.

Still, the radio warbled for their attention.  “Fellow members of the Wizengamot are calling for a witch hunt - _badum tss_ \- the last of which was in the Americas some centuries back.  The way I see it, if those filthy Americans can find their witch then why can’t we, eh?  Come on, Britain, tell me what you’re really thinking. We will start answering your Floo calls right after this break!”

* * *

“Do you know what I think, Potter?”

Harry slathered cream onto his bread and unceremoniously bit into it.  “What?” he asked around a full mouth.

Malfoy held back a sneer.  “I think,” he started again, holding up Harry’s latest script, “that this drivel you come up with is shite.”

“Thanks.”  Harry wiped his mouth on a napkin.  Somewhere behind him, the barista was aerating milk for a customer.  “I’m still working on it. Anything else?”

Next to Malfoy, Chun-ja Jang set down her coffee and leaned in.  “We noticed that your recordings are a bit scratchy, Harry. Have you ever considered hiring a professional?”

“That costs money,” Harry told her, “and connections.  Listen, I -”

“Just like you, Potter,” interjected Malfoy, “always leaving messes for others to clean up.  Your script is a disaster. Your skill in the studio leaves something to be desired. Fortunately for you, there are professionals to handle that side of business.  WWN is prepared to assist you.”

There was a long pause.  Draco and Chun-ja stared at Harry, willing him to speak.  Meanwhile, Harry noisily slurped his tea as his old schoolmates glanced at each other.  

Finally Harry cleared his throat.  “Sorry, I’m lost.”

“Merlin, Potter -”

Chun-ja grabbed Malfoy’s wrist, silencing him.  “What we’re trying to say is,” she interrupted, looking pointedly at Malfoy, “we want you to record with us.  Maybe you’ve got a lot of listeners right now, but how long will they stay? You’ve got to polish your product.  We can help you with that part.”

“Hm.”

Quickly, Chun-ja rushed on.  “WWN is not what it once was, but we’re growing.  We’ve got a lot of listeners who are hungry for more anti-Ministry content.  You’d be paid a salary, Harry. It’s a lot different from running a radio station alone.”

“Alright.”  Harry took his script off the table and shoved it back into his rucksack.  “I’ll think about it, I guess.” Then he stood up, digging in his pocket for the right amount of change.

With the panache of a Malfoy, Draco leaned back in his chair and folded his arms.  “Where are you recording right now, Potter?”

Harry shrugged.  “A room at Grimmauld Place.”  He dropped a couple galleons on the table.  “Nice to see you two, but I’ve got to run.”

“What a joke,” Draco sneered, ignoring him.  “I can get you into a professional recording studio by the end of the week.   Your recordings will be practically tolerable.  And if you sign this...” A magical contract appeared in his pale, manicured hand, “I’ll get you an interview with the Minister.”

Harry licked his lips, realising that he had been bested.

One blonde eyebrow confirmed it.  “Do you still have somewhere to be?” asked Draco.

In answer Harry sat back down.


	2. "Microphone"

**WWN Listens  
** **II: "Microphone"  
** **820 words**

 

WWN turned out to be a flatiron building in central London.  It had no signage - not even lettering on the windows - so Harry dug into his rucksack for Chun-ja’s instructions and read them again.  Then, he opened the nondescript front door and shyly stepped inside.

“Hullo?” he called out, feeling like a prat.

There was an information desk, but it was unmanned.  Behind it was an antique lift, which looked more like a door into a furnace than a lift.  The lobby held nothing else. Harry sighed and pulled back the scissor gate.

The light inside the narrow lift flickered, illuminating only one button: WWN.  He closed the gate and pushed it.

“Thank you for visiting WWN, where Wizards Listen.  If you notice any suspicious persons then please report them to a member of staff.  This lift will arrive at WWN in approximately,” the voice warbled, “one nanocentury.”

Harry stared at the speaker, disbelieving.  “You’re joking,” he informed it, but the announcement did not waver.

“Do not leave any of your belongings in this lift.  We are now arriving at WWN.”

Harry hastily got out.

Rows and rows of abandoned desks, cluttered with newspapers and quills,  were the remains of WWN. If a bomb had gone off, it would not look any different.  Frowning, Harry picked up a newspaper from the ground. Its headline read:

HE WHO MUST NOT BE NAMED RETURNS

A scuffle from the other side of the room caught his attention.

“Oi, Harry!  Over here!”

A familiar man appeared from behind a towering stack of newspapers.

“Lee Jordan,” Harry realised, “what the hell are you doing here?”

“Working, mate!”  Lee grabbed Harry’s hand and enthusiastically shook it.  “Haven’t seen you since Bill’s wedding - Christ, has it been that long?  Feels like last week, doesn’t it.”

The newspaper in Harry’s hand was suddenly pulled away.  “A real gem, aren’t they. Places like this were abandoned after You Know Who took over the Ministry.  Practically untouched. Did you find us alright? Sorry about the lift,” Lee added. “Haven’t figured out what’s wrong with it yet.”

Wait -” Harry interrupted.  “You work here?”

“Can you believe it?  Malfoy wrangled me in here after _Potterwatch_ \- did you ever listen in?  Wasn’t my best work but not my shabbiest either.”

“Yea,” Harry smiled.  “Ron had us listening every time it was on.  Really good programme.”

Lee smiled.  “Forget _Potterwatch_.  We’ve got something better here.  You go on, Harry - Jang’s office is through there.”

“Alright, see you.” Harry followed the pointed finger, past the strange line-up of desks and to a door in the back.  On frosted glass it read, “WWN Director,” so Harry pushed it open and stepped inside.

“Potter, there you are,” a familiar voice greeted.

Chun-ja sat behind a large desk and Malfoy stood next to her, holding a notebook and scratching something down.  “Harry. Did you find us alright?” she asked.

“I’m here, aren’t I,” he replied, shrugging out of his raincoat.  “Listen, is it just us four in the building?”

Malfoy frowned while Chun-ja nodded.  “After You-Know-Who took it over, news outlets lost a lot of credibility.  Nearly all the staff quit. So it presents a unique opportunity,” she rushed on, seeing Harry’s frown.  “We are here to rebuild it.”

“Not accepting Ministry patronage has been seen as a mistake,” murmured Malfoy in a dry tone.

“Businesses like the Daily Prophet and DPWN - that is, the Daily Prophet Wireless - who have accepted funding from the Ministry, are rebuilding more quickly than WWN,” Chun-ja admitted.  “The accuracy of their news will pay the cost.”

“There is no such thing as unbiased news these days.”  Harry couldn’t hide his displeasure. “You don’t want to disclose your agenda to the Ministry, is all.  So is it that you need my money, or my name?”

“Neither,” replied Chun-ja with vehemence.

“For now,” Malfoy squeezed in.

Chun-ja gave Draco a look and gestured at a chair next to Harry, which the git grudgingly took.  “I need you both here,” she said firmly, “and not for your money or names. Draco knows how to throw off the Ministry, and we’ve got Lee Jordan running general announcements.  It's a good start, but what we lack is content. WWN needs your programme, Harry. It’s crude and tactless and people listen to it.

“Unbiased news may not exist, you’re right.  But people need to hear a different voice than the Ministry’s.”

Chun-ja leaned back and for the first time, Harry realised why she was the director. “Alright, I'll do a programme with you,” he decided aloud. “But I won’t disclose my name.”

“If you sign the contract, you forfeit that right.” There was an edge to her voice that he hadn’t expected.

“I’m literally doing this to _keep_ anonymity,” snapped Harry.  “If I don’t have that, what do I have?”

Draco turned to him as if he were stupid.  “A recording room with the Minister and a microphone.”


	3. "Mastery"

**WWN Listens  
** **III: "Mastery"  
** **1174 words**

 

In a quiet part of London, Lucius shook the hand of Vermout Rosso and bid him a good day.  Then he stepped out of the speakeasy and headed towards Knockturn Alley.

Though it was too late for afternoon tea, Lucius picked his way to a teahouse anyway.  There was one hidden from the main street, shielded by trees and shade and an occasional degenerate.  It was not unlike an alcove inside Hogwarts, or a pigeonhole cafe in Italy, so he was untroubled to sit down.

That is, until a particular curly-haired ruffarian tripped over Lucius’ table and spilled his tea.

“Sorry,” Harry Potter muttered, ducking his head.  Lucius’ tea waterfalled off the table’s edge, dangerously near his perfectly polished boot.  He resisted the urge to kick the silly brat away, and reached for his cane. The mess was gone in an instant.

“If it isn’t Mr Potter,” Lucius murmured, examining the boy on the ground.  Bottle cap glasses and faded scar were not the only tell-tale signs of Hogwarts’ Finest.  Coldly he scrutinised the Quidditch physique, dark hair, and green eyes which glared up at him.  Lucius had not known Lily Evans, but he might understand now Severus’ fondness. “I see your reflexes have not kept up with you.”

Potter grabbed onto a chair and hoisted himself upright.

“Glad to see you’re fine,” he retorted tartly, shaking a fistful of papers.  “My transcript is a mess now, thanks to you!”

Lucius leaned back in his chair.  “I dare say your thanks is unnecessary.  We all manage with what we have - some more than others…”

Then the boy, who looked nothing like Draco but certainly acted similarly, retreated to a table further along the veranda and threw himself into a chair.

Lucius sighed and stood up.

“Is it in terrible disarray?” he asked, levitating two clean teacups and a kettle to this new disaster zone.  While Lucius may have meant to pitch his voice kindly, Potter looked up with the betrayal of a spoiled house elf.

“I’m fixing it,” Potter snapped, though it did not appear that he was fixing anything, least of all his attitude.  The teakettle poured itself.

Clearing his throat, Lucius tried again.  “Do you often trip over unmoving objects?” he asked conversationally, gesturing at the upheaval of chairs with his saucer.  Potter said nothing.

Lucius lifted his cup to his lips.  “The tea is rather good - worse than sharing would be wasting it.”

“You’re a terrible conversationalist,” said the boy.

“Am I?” asked Lucius, smiling behind the rim.  “Perhaps it is that one of us lacks sense of humour.”

It was a late day in July, though none of the usual tourism reached here.  The door of the corner bookshop - half a block away - opened and closed, and Lucius watched a ruffled witch balance a stack of books and a broom.  Elsewhere, a hollow laugh and the scent of clean laundry.

A heavy sigh disturbed the air.  “I hate to admit it,” Potter started quietly, “but your son got me a really brilliant opportunity.”  If the street had been any busier, Lucius might not have heard him.

“Draco,” Lucius murmured, not turning.  “Yes, he does so enjoy helping people.”

“It was hardly for free,” Harry retorted, his face twisting at the words.  “It never is, with him.”

Lucius set down his cup.  “Malfoys are not philanthropists, Mr Potter,” he said, smiling at the boy.

For the first time, Potter reached for his tea and took a sip.  As Lucius watched, the piercing gaze softened and the boy let out a breathy sigh.  “You chose a good one,” he murmured after a long pause. “I usually order it with vanilla.”

Lucius looked away.  “Come here often?” he asked casually, carefully keeping the curiosity out of his tone.

“A bit.”  A hand gestured to the bookshop across the way.  “I live above that shop there,” Potter explained.  “No one comes this far into Knockturn, so I’m left well enough alone.”

“The boy who lived in Knockturn Alley,” needled Lucius.  Then he gestured in the opposite direction with his cane.  “I just came from a venue that way - I am arranging a small social for Draco.  Perhaps, as you are so indebted to him, you would like to help congratulate him on receiving his Mastery.”

“Mastery?” Harry asked, sounding surprised.  “In what, pettiness?”

Lucius’ once amused face turned bland.  “Healing,” he corrected.

It looked like Potter was about to laugh, then thought better of it.  He finished off his tea, but even the cup could not hide his snort. Lucius’ eyes narrowed.

“Sorry, it’s just - Healing?”  Potter’s face wrinkled in amusement.  “When did that come on?”

Lucius ignored the question.  “I will be sending you a respondez s’il vous plait via owl,” he said, pulling several Galleons out of his robes.  “What flat number is it?”

“Uh,” Potter paused, watching Lucius stand up.  “Four.” He looked a bit dazed, lost in the width of Lucius’ shoulders.  “Harry Potter, flat four. 95 Bagley.”

As Lucius touched his cane, he murmured a simple charm to rearrange Potter’s transcript in the correct order.  A thin ribbon neatly secured itself around the bundle. “Do try to avoid tripping again,” he teased, handing the transcript back.  Briefly, an emboldened line - _What steps have you taken to locate your missing Wizengamot member?_ \- caught Lucius’ eye.  Then he smiled at the silly boy and departed.

* * *

 Mrs Binns was idling on the steps of her shop, looking positively peeved, as Harry pulled out his house keys.

“Busy day, Mrs Binns?” he asked politely.

“Busy day indeed,” she muttered, waving the question away.  “Was that Lucius Malfoy with you just now?”

Harry shrugged.  “I happened to run into him.  Literally,” he added darkly.

“Mr Potter, I am vexed,” Mrs Binns announced.

Harry paused, one foot already on the stairs up to his home.  The sun had started to fall, casting disturbing shadows on his landlady’s face.  He leant his rucksack against the railing and turned to face her.

“What for?”

“‘What for?’”  She mimicked, shaking a finger at him.  “You know what for, boy. There you are, lounging, having a coffee with Lucius Malfoy.  Of all people!”

“It was tea, actually,” Harry corrected, smiling.

“Don’t get smart, boy, it isn’t good for politics.  When was the last time you came around for a coffee with me!  Weeks, I’d wager,” she said grumpily.

“Don’t you usually take tea?” he teased.  “I’ll come around soon. Swamped with work, you know how it is.”

“Hooey!”

He laughed and picked up his bag.  “Good night, Mrs Binns,” he started to say, and then a thought occurred to him.  Harry turned to see the older witch turning the OPEN sign to CLOSED. “You wouldn’t happen to follow news about that missing Wizengamot member, would you?” he asked.

“Nasty business, that,” she grumbled.  “Worse than no money is owing money.”

“What do you mean?”

Mrs Binns looked back at him, unimpressed.  “Weren’t you going?” she asked, and shut the door behind her.  Harry stared at the CLOSED sign, dumbfounded.


	4. "Interview"

**WWN Listens  
** **Chapter IV: “Interview”  
** **1335 words**

  

At 3:00 on Tuesday, there was a mercurial hush over Diagon Alley.  In Wiltshire, Lucius paused in penning invitations to adjust the dial on his wireless, turning it from that odd, rebellious programme - which had been silent all week except for an event announcement - to the less salacious WWN.

“Sit down, Minister,” a familiar voice invited, followed by the sound of a door closing.  There was some feedback from the microphone as the two men sat, and then the line quietened.

“Good to see you again,” Ludovic Bagman said, sounding distinctly uncertain about this.  “I’ve had my escort wait outside, you understand, considering the nature of our meeting.”  Far away, with a coy smile, Lucius scratched out the name of Astoria Greengrass on an envelope.

“The nature of it?” the host politely asked.

“Why, privacy, of course!”  Bagman laughed, as if it were obvious.  “That’s what this is all about, isn’t it - this strange meeting place and such.  Don’t trouble yourself next time. You’ll find that I would never betray your confidence.”

At this Lucius paused, letting his quill sink into its inkwell.  Then he looked at the wireless straight on, wondering where exactly Bagman was spending his Tuesday afternoon.  It was a live recording, of that he was certain. Clearly, Bagman had not guessed this part.

“So,” Bagman cleared his throat.  “When is our mutual friend arriving?”

“Oh, didn’t he tell you?  I’m afraid he won’t make it today,” the host replied.  “Caught in someone else’s three-ring circus. Not unlike Amelia Bones, your missing Wizengamot member.”

Minister Bagman chuckled.  “I’m not surprised, considering who his father is.  Tea?” he asked hopefully. It sounded like a cup was being handed to him, and then Bagman breathed a sigh.  “Brass monkeys outside. Nothing like a good cuppa tea on a day like this, wouldn’t you say?”

“I can think of a few better things.”

In reply, Bagman guffawed.  “Of course you can! Strapping young lad like you, the world is yours.  I’ve seen it all, boy, the good and bad. Pass the cream, kindly.” An audible slurp.  “Yes, better. Can’t take away the indulgences of an old man, can we?”

“‘Indulgences.’  That’s a strange word for it.”

“Pardon?”

The host did not clarify.

“I wouldn’t call cream with tea an indulgence,” Bagman gibbed.  “More like a necessity, at least in my family. Not sure where you sprung up from, all those years ago!”  

“Oh, let me be clear.  I grew up in Surrey, with my Muggle relatives, and they take their tea like anyone else on the island.  But I didn’t invite you here for a chaff,” the host explained, speaking slowly. “We’re here to talk about your gambling problems, Minister, and their consequences.”

“Honestly…  You’ve got me all turned around now,” Bagman insisted.  “But if you did grow up with Muggles, I see now why you kept it a secret from the Ministry.  I wouldn’t have believed it if I’d heard from Dumbledore himself!”

With deft fingers, Lucius straightened his stack of sealed invitations, crisp ink staining their high quality envelopes.  This host was, assuredly, the same host of that delightfully dreadful programme which Lucius had been listening to for months now.  Apparently, the man was secretly Muggleborn and acquainted with Bagman, a nefarious gambler… Lucius leant back and frowned. The media truly was a hippodrome of indecency.

And a reputable network - WWN, no less - had finally picked this one up and dropped him in front of the Minister to smear dirty politics on public radio.  It was vulgar and tactless and, for once, Lucius was not amused by it. He turned his back to the wireless.

“I was also at the Quidditch World Cup in 1994.  My mates placed a bet with you, but when it came time to pay up you took French leave.”

Bagman coughed.  “You’ll have to forgive me if my memory of last decade is a bit hazy.  I hardly remembered where I put my shoes last night!”

“So you have no idea what I’m talking about,” Lucius heard the host say.  “I find that hard to believe. You see, Minister, I’ve done my research on you.  After taking office, you advanced years’ worth of your salary to the Gamp* family… who incidentally, funded your campaign.  Three years into office and you’ve spent six years’ of Minister salary and emptied your family accounts. That’s well over a hundred grand in Galleons that you owe to the Ministry and haven’t worked for.”

“I -”  Bagman cleared his throat.  “You must understand, this is all rumour.  As the most influential man in Britain, you mustn’t let rumour stop a perfectly good transaction between friends.”

“What?” the host asked with a bark.  “You thought we were here to make a deal?”

“Aren’t we?”  the Minister’s voice purred.  “You hardly have room to talk, not since you ran your name into the ground.  With me by your side, we can fix this new, how should I say... notoriety of yours.  Brush it off, make a clean breast of it. Clearly we both suffer from problems easily solved by the other, wouldn’t you agree?  I personally -”

“I’m not crooked, Bagman,” came the short reply.  Then a pause, as if the host were debating with himself.  “Well, what have you got in mind? Spit it out.”

In the West Country the afternoon was fair, with a crisp wind blowing against the window panes and the sky, a dense white.  Lucius absently walked to the window, reviewing the grounds. Behind him, the radio warbled.

This was nothing like the naive, albeit coarse, programme which had secretly charmed him.  Vulgarity in the name of comedy was acceptable, if listened to in the privacy of your home.  This public spectacle, far from benign humour, set Lucius’ teeth on edge.

His eyes wandered over the topiaries, left unsheared for the winter.  The host’s old programme, while ribbing, had foamed at the mouth with confidential information.  It was hardly the fare of an outsider or Muggleborn. Was the latest WWN host a former Ministry goon?  Lucius reconsidered this clandestine host as he reluctantly returned to his desk and the radio.  They were still going at it.

“For young men like yourself, investing is the canniest move.  Plenty of wheels turning around me, you’ll notice. I’ll have you hosting balls and campaigning for the Wizengamot in no time at all.  You will be quite a busy man again.”

“In return, I fund your campaigns?” the host guessed, his voice coloured with mild disgust.  “What a generous offer. So tell me, how much money will it take to find Amelia Bones?”

Lucius capped his bottle of ink by hand, careful not to stain his fingers.  

“Yes, well, Bones,” Bagman slurped at his tea.  “Let’s let sleeping dogs lie.”

“A Wizengamot member with the people’s vote suddenly disappears, and you don’t find this concerning,” the host said coolly in return.  “Are there future missing persons on the Wizengamot?”

“This conversation remains between us,” Bagman stressed.  “Frankly, there is no future for her type in my Ministry. Having taken care of a few bad apples yourself, you understand.”  His voice dropped a volume. “Loose ends get knotted, so you must tidy them up. And I have things I need to be doing.”

“Like paying off your debt to… society.”

An ugly laugh came from the Minister.  “Yes, quite,” he agreed.

There was feedback from the microphone.  Then the host said, “Why don’t you say that for me again, Minister Bagman?  The part about Amelia Bones. Just a bit louder this time.”

“What?  What is this?” Bagman asked, his voice rising.  Next, Lucius could hear the sound of porcelain breaking.  “HAVE YOU BEEN RECORDING US?”

“Broadcasting,” was the brazen reply.

An audible scuffle ensued.  “Come grass, have you!” Bagman shouted, just before he cast a curse.

“Protego!”

Then, the programme cut out.  Lucius looked at the wireless and raised an eyebrow.  There was one question in his mind: Who gave the fink his own WWN programme?

 

* * *

 

*The Gamps are an older pureblood wizarding family, not to be confused with the Gaunt Family.


	5. "Speakeasy"

**WWN Listens  
** **Chapter V: “Speakeasy”  
** **931 words**

 

“This is Draco Malfoy,” Harry explained, locking the door to his flat.  “He’s my employer now.”

“Is that right,” Mrs Binns muttered, sounding vaguely unimpressed.  She turned to Malfoy, who was standing nearby with a haggard expression.  “Well, get on with it, boy, you aren’t stepping foot in my shop.”

Malfoy glared at her.  “I’m not here for you, Madam,” he grouched.

Smiling, Harry pocketed his house keys.  “Lucius is celebrating Draco’s Mastery in Healing tonight,” he went on.  “You can tag along if you like, Mrs Binns.”

“Healing?”  Mrs Binns straightened from watering her carnivorous flowers.  “You work at St Mungo’s now, Potter?”

She was a quick one, Harry noticed with a mischievous smile.  “Not at all, Mrs Binns. And neither does Draco. Seems we’ll be having some fun tonight, eh?”

Malfoy cleared his throat.  “Well, if you’re both done gossiping at my expense,” he sneered, straightening his robes, “we’ve got somewhere to be.  Mrs Binns.”

Then he dragged Harry down the street, towards the speakeasy.

“What was that?” hissed Draco as he finally let go of Harry’s arm.  “This isn’t a joke, Potter.”

“It isn’t?”  Harry was unconvinced.  “Your father thinks you’re a Healer.  I’d say you’re brilliant except for how bloody stupid you are, lying to Lucius Malfoy.”

“I know,” came the harsh, whispered reply.  “I know, believe me.”

Ruffled, Draco ran a hand through his hair and resumed walking.  “He’s conservative in literally everything. Especially his politics.  He’d murder me if he ever found out about WWN - if someone,” Draco punched Harry in the shoulder, “ever told him.  I’m your employer, remember? You did a hell of a job on the Minister, let’s not ruin things for anyone else… particularly me.”

Harry sighed.  “Right. It’s just that -” they stepped into a bar and Draco picked up an antiquated telephone on the wall.  “He’s bound to find out, you know?”

With a glare, Draco growled, “Whisky dropper, two,” and replaced the receiver.  A door appeared next to the telephone and they stepped into the venue.

Vermout Rosso met them in the parlour of the establishment, extending his hand.  Instead of a handshake, Draco gave him his coat. “Who’s arrived so far? Anyone I care about?” asked Draco, scanning the room.

“Mr Malfoy, I am Vermout Rosso.  Welcome. Your father came early to secure arrangements.  Mrs Malfoy is there, by the bar. The Greengrass family, and yes, Mr Zabini are over by…”

“Brilliant.”  Before Mr Rosso could finish, Draco was already walking towards the bar.

“Charming, isn’t he,” added Harry, taking off his hat and jacket.

Rosso nodded.  “A pleasure, Mr Potter.  Do stop by the open bar,” he murmured, and passed their jackets to a waiting house elf.

It was a strange establishment, with floating lights that cast a mild glow over an assortment of leather sofas, worn rugs, and high-backed chairs.  It was intimate, and looked nothing like the tacky, overpriced venue Harry had pictured in his mind.

There were several Ministry higher-ups, some of which he had only ever seen portraits of, chatting nearby.  From a niche he noticed two pairs of eyes - Astoria Greengrass and Blaise Zabini’s - watching him like a fly under a microscope.  Greengrass raised an eyebrow, and Harry quickly decided he needed a drink.

“Here, Potter,” said a familiar voice as a glass was shoved in his hand.  Harry stumbled into Draco on his way to the bar, feeling just a bit off-kilter.  “What is it? You look as though someone died.”

“We shouldn’t be so lucky, Draco,” Narcissa murmured, coming up behind them.  “Though you do look ill, Mr Potter,” she added, leaning in. “The powder room is just there, should you need it.”

“Thanks,” he returned dryly, ignoring Narcissa as she turned around.  Harry cleared his throat. “Malfoy, I shouldn’t even be here. Clearly I don’t belong.”

“Clearly,” Narcissa echoed.

“It’s Father’s doing,” explained Draco, running a hand through his hair again.  It seemed to be a terrible habit reserved for any thought of his father. “He’s got a soft spot for you, Merlin knows why.  Go entertain him and stop pestering me.”

Harry sighed and turned around, a nest of snakes meeting him.  Perhaps, Harry quickly decided, it was a good thing they all thought he and Draco were Healers.  He swallowed a mouthful of whisky.

A firm hand grabbed him, shaking his shoulder.  “And don’t do anything stupid,” a low voice growled in his ear.

“What was that?”

“Nothing, Mother.”

 

* * *

 

Staying out of everyone’s way was easier said than done.  Lucius eventually ambushed Harry by the toilets, where he had hidden, splayed out on a settee.

“I’m pants at this,” Harry started without introduction, gesturing vaguely to the sounds of light conversation and jazz.

“Mr Potter, a pleasure to see you again.  I would offer to top you off, but it seems you have been attended to.  With some regularity.”

Harry looked at his glass, then set it down on the nearest surface.  “True enough,” he admitted. “Malfoy doesn’t trust me to talk, so I’ve got to keep my mouth occupied somehow.”

“Drinking is one choice,” Lucius agreed, glancing at Harry’s mouth.  “Though there are others.”

“Right,” he replied, confused.  “Er, I should be going. Thanks for the invite, but this really isn’t my cup of tea.”

Lucius gave him a serene smile.  “Tea has nothing to do with it, Mr Potter.  I see that Draco took care of bringing you here.  As your host I would be remiss if I allowed you to leave, especially before you have enjoyed yourself.”

A pale hand reached towards him.

“Come.”


	6. "Boo-boo"

**WWN Listens  
** **Chapter VI: “Boo-boo”  
** **1353 words**

 

“Lucius!  Marvelously managed, my friend,” a man said, standing up as they walked closer.

Lucius raised the martini glass in his hand.  “A man is only as good as his company,” he returned, and pulled Harry closer against him.  “Harry, I don’t believe you’ve met Robert Ogden. He keeps things civil in the Magical Trade office.”

“Harry Potter, pleasure,” Ogden bumbled happily, patting Harry’s shoulder.  “None so impressive as me dad, ‘m afraid, but I’ve got to make a living all the same.”

“Dirk Cresswell,” the man next to Ogden said, gesturing to himself.  “Head of the Goblin Liaison Office. Professor Slughorn speaks highly of you, Mr Potter.”

“Yes, well,” Lucius interrupted, “Horace is nothing without his extracurriculars, is he.  Still, it did nothing to slow the downward plummet of our beloved Minister.”

“Bagman?”  Harry faltered.

“Of course, Harry,” Lucius agreed.  “Didn’t you hear? Minister Bagman took an interview with WWN, and it ended disastrously for both parties.  Likely the worst display in journalism I have seen in the wizarding community. Neither have a future in politics, I would humbly wager.”  Harry flushed.

In reply, Cresswell patted his beard.  “It’s true, Mr Potter; WWN has made its grave with this one.  It’s in good company with the Quibbler, isn’t it? As for Minister Bagman…  He may not be a saint, especially where wagers are involved… But  _ I _ would wager he doesn’t discriminate against Muggleborn.”  He gave Lucius a heavy glare.

Lucius cleared his throat.  “Robert, have you solved that dither with India yet?”

Ogden spent the next ten minutes excitedly recalling the resolution.  How Harry listened to all of it, he had no idea. Before Lucius could drag him to the next lot, Harry held up his hastily emptied glass.  “Need a bit of padding,” he slurred, and headed towards the bar. A reluctant Lucius followed.

“Malfoy,” Harry called out, and two blonde heads turned.  “Look who I’ve found,” he announced, grabbing Lucius’ hand to pull him forward.  The cool fingers slipped away, so Harry grabbed a dish of nuts behind the bar instead.

“He is positively bewitching, Lucius,” a forked tongue said.  “Wherever did you find this... paragon?” Narcissa appeared at Draco’s elbow, as if she had never left it.

Harry chomped at the nuts.  “I’m from Surrey,” he offered dryly.  “Isn’t this nice, Draco? Your father, mother, and you, here to celebrate your Mastery.  One big happy.”

Lucius frowned.

“Let’s toast to Draco,” Harry announced, raising his glass.  “For his Mastery in Healing, which he lied and cheated to get.”

“Pull yourself together, Potter,” Draco hissed.  “You’re not making any sense.”

“Listen, Draco, I’m helping you,” Harry said, a bit louder than he had intended.  Several people turned to look at him, but Harry ignored them.

It was hard to stand steady, so he set the nuts and his drink down.  “You’ve all got a lot to talk about, you know,” he started again. “What with everything going on…  Draco’s Mastery, the interview with the Minister…”

“This is neither the time nor place,” an unamused Lucius replied, setting his jaw.  “Mr Potter is quite intoxicated, I am sure he is not himself.”

“ _ Maybe _ ,” corrected Harry, “We’re all pretending to be someone else.”

Narcissa sighed.  “Oh, Lucius, he thinks he’s clever.  Someone take this Philistine outside.”

In reply, Draco obediently grabbed Harry and steered him towards the parlour.  “Come on, you pinhead,” he growled.

“Thank Merlin.  I thought I’d be stuck here all night.”

Behind them, Harry could hear Lucius politely clear his throat.  “Narcissa, he is an honoured guest. Do try to behave, if only for civility’s sake.”

“I am only here to support Draco,” Harry heard her reply, the frigidity in her voice making him shiver.

“Is something going on with your parents?”  

Draco did not reply.  Instead, he opened an unmarked door next to the coat closet, and they were suddenly on the street.  Harry’s head spun. “Oh, hang on. I think I forgot my jacket -” he started to say, and then a fist connected with his face.

 

* * *

 

The next morning, there was an impatient knock on his door.  Harry groaned and pulled himself off the sofa. “What is it?” he snapped as he wrenched the door open.

“Your etiquette needs work,” Blaise Zabini greeted, slithering inside.  He looked around the flat - dirty dishes, clothes on the floor, and a banking fire - with a raised eyebrow.  “My, my, aren’t we natty?”

“Fuck off,” Harry managed back as he pilfered his way to the kitchen.  The icebox surrendered a cold pack, which Harry gingerly held to his eye.  “What do you want, Zabini?”

“Well,” the man started, dusting off a kitchen chair with a kerchief, “I would gladly wait for our tenth year reunion to, how do the Muggles say…  Chew the fat with you.” He sat down. “However, I couldn’t miss the chance to see you like this. Had an eventful evening, did we?”

It was terribly sunny, so Harry lowered the blinds on the window.  “You’re an arse.”

“And yet…”  Zabini took out his wand and set water to boil.  “You’re the one with the black eye. Queer, isn’t it?”

Harry threw back a vial of Pepper Up and slumped back onto the sofa.  His sensitive nose picked up the smell of tea being steeped.

“For a Healer, you’re rubbish at it,” his intruder said conversationally.

Harry snorted.  After one evening with the Malfoys, he was apparently a Healer and a twat - how had that happened?  He rubbed at his face.

“It’s a good thing you’re the Boy Who Lived,” Zabini went on, unaware of Harry’s plight.  “Or you’d never get a job in this recession.”

“I got a job offer, but I really mucked up an interview,” Harry was surprised to hear himself saying.  “No one bothered to tell me, of course, so I thought it went brilliantly. Looks like I’ve ruined my career before it began.”

“This is why Slytherins rely on their names to get by,” Zabini offered mildly.

Harry took a long breath, as if he were smoking a fag.  “I’ve never wanted that.”

Zabini was unimpressed.  “As soon as you drop your name, the entire wizarding world will come running.  You could have someone wiping your ass if you only asked. Don’t waste your time with Gryffindor pride.”

There was a long silence, and Harry could hear the soft ticking of the kitchen clock.

“Don’t tell me you tried to interview at St Mungo’s.  You really thought you stood a chance?” teased Zabini as he summoned the cream and sugar.

Harry sat up and glared at him.

Zabini shrugged.  “You’ll have to make it up to him, you know,” he changed the subject, sipping his tea.  “Draco. You did make an arse of yourself at his party.”

“Malfoys don’t accept apologies, Zabini.”  Harry sighed, adjusting the cold pack on his face.  “And anyway, I think he got what he needed out of it.  Or should I let him do the other eye?”

A teacup clicked against its saucer.  “Can’t hurt to ask,” Zabini smiled. “I reckon he’d do it, too - Draco’s got a peculiar lack of tact, for a Slytherin.  Obviously you make him look like a dreamboat, but that’s Gryffindor for you. Got any niblets?”

“I’m not a bloody vending machine.”

Zabini polished off his tea and stood up.  “Well, I’ve done all I can. You’ll have to slip back into Draco’s good graces on your own.”

“Was I ever in them to begin with?” Harry grumbled.  Still, he sat up. “Why did you come here in the first place, Zabini?”

Long legs stood and carried the well-bred man to the door.  “Didn’t I tell you? Draco’s my best mate.”

Even Harry could tell how flimsy that was.  Still, Zabini only shrugged. “As a Healer, you ought to know to use bruise removal paste.  Careful, Potter, or you’ll end up in some second-rate hack shop.” He opened the door. “Cheers.”

Then he left, leaving a half-full pot of tea on the table.  Harry set down the cold pack and poured a cup for himself, feeling like a twat.  Bruise removal paste, indeed.


End file.
